


Blood Sickness.

by bad besties for life (doubleinfinity)



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Action, Blood and Violence, But no actual sex for the first time in my writing career mom you must be so proud, Dark Peter Parker, Dark Wade Wilson, Dimension Travel, Emotions, Fighting, Homoeroticism, M/M, Multiverse, Murder, Pining, Sexual Undertones, Spideypool - Freeform, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, combat as a metaphor for fucking, darker than usual, nontraditional narration, so many shades darker than usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 00:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17991041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubleinfinity/pseuds/bad%20besties%20for%20life
Summary: Wade jumps into another dimension, hunting down Spiderman.What Spiderman and Deadpool have taught me is that everything in life, (even the darkest and most painful parts of life), can be fun and playful.  I wanted to write something to explain what I mean by that.





	Blood Sickness.

Sweet and promising, a gust of heat spills through the portal.

It’s a thriving summer night in world USNYFH #339. He would know; Deadpool has dipped his toes into a lot of different dimensions throughout the week, and though he wasn’t actively seeking palm trees and floral sunglasses, he regards the warmth as a happy coincidence. Some of those universes are _frigid_.

Not this one. He hovers a hand appraisingly over the swirling black surface as though it’s a bonfire and he’s deciding how much kindling he’s gonna add. 

Quiet a bit, USNYFH #339. Quite a bit.

He just hopes he’s not going to cook like a marshmallow the second he jumps through it. Deadpool needs to go out shredded, not goo’ed.

He rolls the jacket off his shoulders and lets it drop onto the pavement. Don’t need that.

Straightens the harness that sheathes his katanas, crossed behind him like a coat of arms. Definitely required.

Cracks his knuckles and gives a quiet, “Here goes.” 

Then he jumps into a new dimension.

Do you know how much effort he had to put into this? How long it took to find a universe where: a) Peter Parker _loathed_ him, b) Wade Wilson was firmly MIA, a wanted fugitive, and c) the temperature was above 75 degrees Fahrenheit?*

* okay, so that might have been part of his search parameters. _tmp:: 75-100_  
… and his Boolean operators might have all been ANDs.  
… and he might have had over a hundred results immediately returned to him.

But he really, really did his research. Scout’s honor. And he’s sure of it: this is the perfect world. This is where he needs to be. And he’s ready for it.

First time swallows him, then space.

He feels his atoms grating, his existence rubbing painfully against itself as he’s ripped apart and remodeled again. Gritted teeth, fists clenched, he loses himself to the improbability of existence and is gone to this world and all the others, falling through the cracks of reality.

And then, just as suddenly, he’s back.

He lands on the pavement, crumbling down on all fours.

Fuck.

Straining, Wade forces himself to crawl into a sitting position, craning his neck to take in a desperate gallon of air.

Forest Hills. Different time, same place.

Different people, experiencing the same preciousness of life.

It’s fine. It really is. He can do this.

It’s a little _too_ hot for comfort, he realizes as he pulls himself to his feet. The pavement is sweltering, the buildings dancing hazily, and sweat begins creeping up his neck.

It’s not just that though, it’s… reality lag.

His body fights the new universe like it’s an infection, resisting it with the grip of a multi-armed macrophage. There’s a sickness brewing in his stomach, but he’ll work through it. Wade Wilson is good for nothing if not resilience.

He’s not fully suited tonight- just in a t-shirt and jeans, but he reaches up for the mask hanging loosely above his hairline and pulls it down over his face.

In his own world, Wade hasn’t been Deadpool in a long time. It’s a foreign feeling, slipping back into the mask. It’s like an outfit he outgrew but kept in the back of the closet, hoping that one day it would fit him again.

On the outside, however, he is unmistakable: his katanas, the mask, the scarring that rips across every square inch of his bare arms. Spidey will know him. And Wade knows how to get him here.

He heads for the outskirts of Queens, following the buzz of people. Foot traffic and obnoxious voices- that much is unchanged. Couples stroll out of a theater, singles make their way from bar to bar. A woman jogs, air pods dangling from her ears, and passes a man who turns around to watch her, staring too long for it to be innocuous.

If this were his world, Deadpool might have found some shallow meaning in that: he’s a creep. Or why not reach further? He’s a _danger_ to society.

But this isn’t his universe. So frankly, he doesn’t give a fuck.

He pulls out his katanas and cuts down the first person he sees.

The man’s girlfriend screams, loud and high, as blood sprays all over them. T-shirt soaked through, he slices her next, separating her limbs from her torso. Her scream cuts off.

He feels calm, in control. Excited. He grants himself a sinister chuckle and the sound wells up from a deep, long-buried part of him. He lets himself remember how good it feels. Then he turns around and skewers another pedestrian with his blades, alternating whipping patterns to completely annihilate them. Guts spill. Arteries explode. His heart races with exhilaration.

God, it’s been a while.

His KDR in the past decade? 0:69

Yes, he was extra careful not to get offed again after winning his 69th badge. And yes, the former number in the ratio was because of Peter. Peter, who was made of light and ice and had strived to make Wade a better person even though Wade struggled with even the abstract philosophy behind Peter’s standards.

In the end, Peter had won. Spiderman hadn’t just made him better. He’d made him perfect.

Tonight he says goodbye to that.

He breathes heavily, whipping around with both weapons gripped in front of him. Screeching and crying, people run from him, making for safe places to hide. They don’t know that he _loves_ it when they run.

Katanas gleaming, Wade darts after one of the pedestrians, absolutely thriving as he pounces onto the man’s back and stabs him through the ribs, stomping down on his back to tear it back out again. He hisses in pleasure as the blood rains over his bare skin, offsetting the New York heat. He wants to rip of his mask and drag a bloody hand through his hair, bringing himself to catharsis, Carrie-style.

Something stops him. His body goes still, shoulders curving inward, as he darts his eyes wildly around the street. In the moment of stillness, he feels the dilation of his pupils, the shallow sound of himself panting.

It’s not the police sirens blaring from afar that command his attention, although he does hear them approaching. It’s the way the universe is thrumming now, gentle pulsewaves lapping against his consciousness like radio tower transmissions that only he can hear.

It is unlike anything he has ever known, and more familiar than his heart can handle.

He tastes it: the air has gone sweet. Spiderman is closing in.

He turns in time to see the delicate, graceful spider fly over his head, gliding through the air in a powerful arc. Spiderman: arms outstretched, torso arched, knees bent for a landing. Wade’s heart swallows a beat, failing to pump. Hidden inside the suit, this man looks so much like his own.

The world shatters back into action.

“Deadpool!” Spidey screams at him in an accusatory voice, landing in a crouch.

His voice. Jesus Chris, his voice.

“Hello, pretty baby,” Wade purrs lowly, matching his stance. He holds his katanas threateningly in both fists, stomach twisting. He forgot how real that voice could sound.

What’s the full story between Deadpool and Spiderman in this world? Sworn enemies? Unwilling lovers? Brief flashes of red zipping by each other on the superhero playing field?

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want this Peter. That’s not why he’s here.

He lunges.

Spiderman darts out of the way as Wade slashes at the air and strikes pavement. He rebounds and pushes off against the curb, launching at Spiderman with his blades raised again, bringing them down like cleavers inches away from Peter’s neck.

Pulse racing, he watches as Peter slams a fist into the spider symbol on his chest. To Wade’s unbearable delight, his suit blooms: four spindly, razor-sharp legs unfold from behind him, spilling over his shoulders. Ten claws pierce through the gloves on his fist, turning him into an absolute predator.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath, grating the steel of his katanas together.

Webs lets him lead, keeping the distance as long as Wade will allow it. When he suddenly rushes forward, Spidey rushes back.

This is a different Peter. He’s dark, he’s angry, and Wade knows that he made the right decision: this Peter will kill him if he’s given the chance.

Wade wonders what must have happened to him in this universe to make him like that.

Spidey’s claws fly at him, swinging chaotically through the air, and Wade uses his katanas to block each strike. Metal legs try to grab him, giving him four more concerns for every web Peter shoots. The appendages also act like shields whenever Wade tries to find an opportunity to stab at the soft, unprotected belly of Peter’s body, keeping him from gaining any headway.

Fuck, Wade is actually getting tired. This man is ruthless.

Wade’s Peter was a fighter too. He was strong and fluid, and fighting with him was always like dancing. Fucking him was like dancing too.

Licking the inside of his mouth, their bodies squirming or thrashing together, sweat rolling down his skin, the tangled positions that they ended up in, the way Peter looked sprawled out on the bed after he was satisfied, loose and airy, mouth and mind dripping with cum, turning his perfect head and asking if Wade wanted anything in particular for dinner: how could Wade not want to become a better man? How could he not throw every impulse out the window and kneel down to this creature, like Spidey was a god with the power to save his soul?

He remembers them curled up in bed, a hand wrapped around Web’s cock, turning the fierce and iconic Spiderman into a man, writhing and panting as he got closer to coming.

He remembers the quiet moments of intimacy, the occasional masked selfies they took to break the internet, Alexa playing Wade’s favorite rap song and Peter dancing to it in an attempt to hate it less, pounds of IPAs and noodles, miles of flesh and personality to explore. He remembers swinging through the town together in the early hours, Peter laughing and crying at the same time, shining like a prism of crystal light. Fucking and holding him, roughly or gently, Peter allowing him to see parts of himself that he kept hidden deep, deep below the mask.

He will never have that again. Never. But at least he can have one last dance with the Spiderman, even if it has to be this way.

He grabs one of the man's metal legs and grin apologetically, ripping him off his feet.

Spidey scrambles, eyes wide, as Deadpool slings him across the street.

The four legs extend and dig into the asphalt, saving Peter from being ground up into gravel. They help him hop back onto his feet and he starts jogging across the street, slinging webs.

Wade dives and fakes an undercut. He pretends to attack from below and then bounds upwards at the last second, reaching out. He snatches the mask off of Spidey’s head.

Peter’s hands fly to his face, covering his cheeks with his palms. When Wade did this to his Peter, he did the _same exact thing_ with his hands. But that man had blushed in shock, looking simultaneously relieved and betrayed. This shoots him daggers, eyes hateful enough to put Wade out there and then.

When Wade lands, he throws the mask onto the ground.

“You’re beautiful,” Deadpool growls, even to this not-his-Spidey, and realizes that his heart is also full of hatred. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. The multiverse is populated with enough versions of Spiderman to drown him in. And none of them are his. This man has his brown, ruffled hair, his translucent brown eyes, even the same precise motor habits. But it is not his Webs.

His Peter died. Wade kept him in his hands until his skin was cold. He kept trying to revive him long after his body started going stiff with death.

One bad fight. A single instance where Deadpool hadn’t been close enough to stop the gun that was aimed at him.

All that light and breath and warmth, gone.

And all those shadows of him lingering around in the multiverse.

Spiderman jumps into the air and vaults down, aiming for Wade. His four legs spear downward and split through flesh and muscle and then even bone, pinning Deadpool to the pavement. Peter plants his feet on Wade’s chest, mounted like an elk on his metal legs, and looks down with rage on his face.

Then a new white-hot lance of chest pain rips through Wade.

“Oh,” he heaves breathlessly, the pain excruciating, as he realizes that Spiderman has run him through with one of his katanas. “Penetrating me with my own dick.”

“No more running, Wade,” Peter snarls at him, grabbing the handle of the katana and twisting it around.

Wade yelps and feels hot tears stream down his cheeks. God, this is hot.

“Spideybabe,” he pants, equally horrified and entranced. “What happened to you?”

Peter narrows his eyes at him. “You did,” he snaps, and he is still so gorgeous when he’s flushed with hatred. “You ruined me. You took everyone I loved and left nothing behind. You destroyed my life.”

A pang hits Wade, worse than the steel lodged in his heart. He doesn’t want to know any more. Whatever this version of Wade did to Peter, he doesn’t want to know the details. He wants to remember the Peter that he loved fiercely, the one that he gave everything to.

But this is what he needs right now; given all intents and purposes, this is the perfect universe for him to be in.

“You want to kill me?” he taunts, jerking forward.

Peter startles and slams them back down, smashing Wade’s head against the pavement.

“More than anything,” he barks, “More than anything in the fucking world.”

“Then you’ll have to slice me into a million pieces,” he hisses back, teeth gritted. “You slice me up and burn me down into nothing. Turn my skin to ash. Then you take the ash and you spread it. And then you scatter my bones.”

He forces Peter to hold his eyes. “If you do that, I won’t grow back.”

For a scrambling second he thinks of his Spidey’s eyelashes, flared and delicate, and his soft skin, his lilting laugh and rasping moans, his vulgar-at-times but unbelievably wholehearted nature.

He remembers that and feels panic twist in his chest. He thinks to himself, _he doesn’t have the aptitude._

But then Peter grabs Wade’s katanas and starts ripping him apart.


End file.
